“You’ll try! You’ll try!” the teacher jeered in a mocking voice. “Elisa, if I had a euro for every time you’ve tried and failed.” He mugged to the rest of the class while rubbing his thumb against his fingertips to indicate riches, encouraging the laughter of his students. Most stared at him, eyes round, but some managed to laugh weakly, hoping the sound would protect them.
Elisa just hung her head and closed her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She couldn’t dissolve in front of the class. She just couldn’t.
“Maestro!” Mario’s voice rang out from across the classroom. “Maestro, quick! Something’s wrong with Fatima!”
All heads whipped to stare at the new girl, who was shaking and flapping. Her dark eyes rolled back into her head as her body went suddenly rigid, arched out of the seat and flung onto the floor with a bang.
The teacher paled and raced to her side, placing his hands against her face. Elisa stood on her chair to see over Maestro’s head to her friend lying limp on the floor.
“Fatima!” Maestro yelled, trying to shake her. “Fatima!”
A girl at the front of the class screamed and Maestro yelled, “Shut up!”
Elisa’s fingers moved to her mouth involuntarily. She noticed her hands were shaking so much she was jerking.
Fatima moved a little, as if waking up. She opened her eyes, “I . . . I think I’m sick.”
Maestro laughed in relief. “Yes, yes you are! But you’re awake. Thank the Madonna.” His eyes found the crucifix above the door. He whispered a prayer of gratitude.
Fatima rose to sitting and croaked out, “I think I need to go to the office.”
Elisa jumped down from the chair and took Fatima’s arm, guiding her to standing.
“Yes, yes,” Maestro repeated, distractedly. “Yes, take her to the office.”
Fatima nodded solemnly and shot a wink at Elisa.
Looking up from brushing her skirt, Fatima considered her teacher. “Thank you, Maestro. You’re very . . . kind.”
The light shifted and swayed as it filtered through the olive trees, tossing filigreed shadows over the lines of Luciano’s face. His eyes twitched open a crack and he moaned, throwing an arm over his dusty glasses to block out the invasive sunlight.
How did he get here? What time was it? What day?
Rolling onto his back, Luciano forced his eyes to peer into the endless sky. Bright, it was so bright. Midmorning perhaps?
Luciano pushed himself toward sitting and rested his head against his crooked knees. It wasn’t the first time he wound up in the uliveto, though he never remembered exactly how he got here. Something seemed to pull him like a trout on a line. His brain sludged forward.
His mind was clearing.
The pain was back.
Giulia.
It was Giulia who beckoned him here, among the trees that she’d cared for since she was old enough to grasp the shears. Her fingers would run over the knobs of the trees, gliding over the velvety softness of the silver leaves. How she cried when they hard-pruned the trees so that their gnarled forms were unrecognizable. And how she sagged in relief when he told her that olive trees were warriors. They thrived on stress. The jolt of deep pruning would bolster the tree to produce marvelous oil. She’d wiped her tears and nodded, her face shining. After that, he’d often find her in the kitchen with a teaspoon, savoring a little touch of the oil. She claimed she could taste the wind in the sleek peppery gold.
Yes, the groves were full of his daughter. Full of his family’s laughter as the three of them cared for the trees, surrounded by neighbors calling out invitations to stop for a meal of beans cooked in crockery settled in ashes.
But now the groves were empty, empty. There was nothing for him here. Someone kept the weeds down. Probably Ava. She’d been particularly solicitous of him since his daughter died. And in the corner by the oldest tree, someone collected the amethyst heads of boragine, likely less out of kindness and more to top their sausage sandwiches with the silky, slightly bitter greens.
Luciano stood, desperate to quell the memories, to block out the image of his wife handing down bunches of olives to his daughter. Both with their hair held back in kerchiefs, the same ones that his wife’s grandmother had used. He saw their faces, hair working out from the fabric in loose tendrils, turn toward him—jeering. Mocking him for his traitorous adherence to life. They were there, beyond the veil, out of reach. And now they were sneering, cursing him for living while they were cold and buried on the other side of Santa Lucia.
Carosello passed Luciano, brushing against his knees. Startled, Luciano flung out an arm for balance, and the dog cowered, loosing an eggshell from the scruff of his fur. The one-eyed dog gazed up at Luciano reproachfully before jogging away without a backward glance.
Luciano shook his head to free it from the shadows, and stumbled toward the town walls. Once at his doorway he fumbled for his keys before remembering he’d lost them long ago. He jiggled the bar of the doorknob until it released, and he flung himself inside. The house was musty and smelled of dead flowers. It would always smell of dead flowers—the cosmic pile-up of funerals impossible to erase.
He reached toward the light switch to banish the webs of darkness clogging the rancid air. Though there was an obliging click of the switch, there was no answering light.
Magda squeezed a heavy, thick-skinned lemon before scowling and selecting another. Four lemons later, she found one with the right amount of give and nestled it in her red basket. She rummaged in the white cardboard box for another lemon and began the process again. This time she was luckier. She only had to glower at two lemons before finding one that met her standards. She placed the lemon
